


a stone with your name

by TheLoveSlug



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Masochistic Themes, PWP, Rimming, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoveSlug/pseuds/TheLoveSlug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ferrovax is far from human, but he shows more emotion than Kemmler ever will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a stone with your name

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for my own [Ferovax/Cowl or Cowl/Ferrovax](http://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/1288.html?thread=1440264#cmt1440264) prompt. x)
> 
> I focused more on the characters and their actions toward each other than the actual porn. P: So I guess it's also a character study of sorts~ Not beta'd, because I'm a lazy hussie. :"D

Claws, long and curved, trace every part of him that they can reach, leaving red welts on his skin that he thinks is just far too pale, but Ferrovax seems to like it. Ferrovax seems to like everything, from the thin golden chains that bind him, clinking and gritting with every move he makes; to the ruined cloak underneath his too-pale, too-scratched hips, and it just won’t stop moving. The black silk is bunched up and sliding in such a frustrating manner across silver coins and all the ridiculous pearls, the rips and tears of his cloak catching his ankles—teasing the inside of his thighs.

But Ferrovax is just as frustrating, with his many centuries of experience; his endless patience. Those claws, tracing down between his knees to follow the rips and tears; they’re close to the parts that Cowl has much reason to worry about before Ferrovax pulls away—moving further down. A jaw rubs at his stomach, stubble irritating the welts and bringing forth little smears of blood.

His nostrils flare and those eyes—they’re so far from human, slitted and as gold as Cowl’s chains, but they look at him with the hunger of any other man. Ferrovax _always_ likes _everything_ , his long tongue dragging and stinging along the red mess on his abs, tasting and cleaning all that it can reach, and then he’s moving down again—

Down, down, _down_ , tongue wrapping around his cock, long and hot and _maddening_. Ferrovax lets him buck—lets him _try_. His hands are clutching Cowl’s hips, claws leaving deep oozing grooves and he simply hates the roughness of Ferrovax’s palms. They’re too green to be calloused, always leaving impressions in his too-pale flesh.

And it’s simply not _enough_.

“Ferrovax,” a voice says, dark and ugly and everything that Cowl wants.

Kemmler is watching him. He’s always watching Cowl and those eyes—they’re human, not so slitted and as gray as the coming storm, but Cowl has seen beyond that and Kemmler is a terrifying being. He watches Cowl like he’s picking through the insides of a cat; watches Cowl, for he is the subject of the hour and what a wonderfully fascinating subject he _is_.

He doesn’t know if he should be afraid, aroused, or _both_.

Ferrovax takes him in his mouth and Cowl makes a noise he’ll never be proud of, keening so high he wonders if he just came.

There’s a rumble, vibrating all the way to his cock and Cowl knows Ferrovax is amused, and then he’s keening again. He’s high-pitched and keening, hard as ever for Ferrovax and Ferrovax’s mouth, and there’s a twinge of pain moving through his ribs when his back arches in a way that he didn’t know it was capable of until _right now_.

“ _Ferrovax_ ,” it’s a moan, throaty and shameless and _Kemmler_ and Cowl is coming hard, bucking his hips and Ferrovax lets him; swallows him down until he’s done. He’s warm with welts and aching muscles, and it’s so hard to breathe without his ribs hurting but he breathes hard anyway, staring dazedly at the stalactites on the ceiling. He pants and trembles, everything hurting and too hot.

But he’s not done; never until Kemmler says he is.

Kemmler is freezing compared to him, cold hands terribly soothing on his hips. Kemmler has never been warm, and when he presses against him Cowl can feel his scars, like smooth bits of ice. They’re carvings in his chest and along his biceps; they’re silver runes that have been etched onto his shoulders, slashing and curling back down his spine. Cowl has seen them many times and he thinks, somehow, that he’ll never see them enough.

He pushes himself between Cowl’s legs, knees sliding along his ruined cloak and there’s curved claws and green palms holding onto Kemmler’s waist. There’s Ferrovax’s stubble scratching the silver scars red, face hidden in the crook of Kemmler’s neck and those wicked teeth are hidden deep in the tender flesh. All Cowl sees is red, moving down the scarred skin and flowing along the runes like they’re pathways and he’s—Cowl is _fascinated_.

Kemmler isn’t as patient as Ferrovax, pushing and pushing and Cowl inhales sharply, lifting his hips to meet Kemmler all the way. This is how Kemmler is; how he will always be. He takes and takes and never gives, snapping his hips forward with little care and with this _hurtsyesyes—harder!_ pain there’s red, staining the inside of Cowl’s thighs.

Cowl never finishes, because Kemmler is only ever greedy. When he pulls away it leaves Cowl horribly empty and wondering, through his reddened daze, if he’s been split in two.

Ferrovax is back and he intends to break Cowl in an entirely different way, nudging him until he’s on his stomach and all the more vulnerable. There’s the sharp brush of stubble again and a lewd tongue follows after it, in slow, unbearably warm strokes that keep moving up and _what is he doing—whatishedoing?_

Ferrovax knows exactly what he’s doing, slipping his tongue into the emptiness and—it’s too hot and wet and it’s completely alien and— _possibly the most dirty thing Cowl has ever experienced_ —it hurts, in all the right ways that should be wrong, _very wrong_. Ferrovax is patient with Cowl until he’s slick with saliva and _clean of blood, sososodirtythat’swrong_ , but he keeps going, with a lewd not-human tongue that has an easier time breaking Cowl than Kemmler did.

His stubble leaves minuscule scratches and his tongue—that terribly lewd thing—is thrusting deep and Cowl whimpers with it, feeling breathless and light-headed and completely overwhelmed.

His fingers twist in the cloak and he cries out, a forceful orgasm wringing him dry before he goes limp. It leaves him a panting mess in Ferrovax’s hands and Cowl thinks, if he had any strength left, that he would stay right where he was anyway.

Blearily he registers cold, trailing fingers on his hips, bumbling softly over raised and reddening scores. Kemmler, silent, makes swirling scarlet symbols on his thighs, careless of Ferrovax's rough grip.

Ferrovax is a furnace, skin hot and always rough as he pulls both of them closer, and more gently untangles the chains from Cowl. It’s uncomfortable and there’s a possibility of no sleep, but Cowl knows that this is the safest place to be. Kemmler is a terrifying being and it’s clear from his grimace he does not approve of this, but he never argues with Ferrovax. No one does.

Ferrovax likes everything; his hoard of treasure, his Cowl, his Kemmler. He, too, is terrifying. This place with Ferrovax is always the safest but, perhaps, it's also the most dangerous—for _anyone_ , god or otherwise.

But tonight, there is nothing but a quiet Cowl, in nothing but his sweat-slicked skin, who listens to a muttering Kemmler that rests his head on a too-pale lap.

With that quiet uncertainty, Cowl runs his fingers through too-dark hair.


End file.
